


The First Rule of Fight Club

by Llama1412



Series: Don't Cry For Me, Temeria [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Fist Fights, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Relationship, Swordfighting, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27001114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412
Summary: ...aim for where it hurts and don’t give in. AKA the story of how Ves and Ciaran’s irritation at everyone’s “get along” attitude accidentally leads to the creation of a fight club. And there's nothing erotic about beating the shit out of each other, not at all.
Relationships: Ciaran aep Easnillien/Ves, Ciaran aer Easnillien & Ves (The Witcher), Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Series: Don't Cry For Me, Temeria [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912225
Comments: 15
Kudos: 25





	The First Rule of Fight Club

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after Chapter 22 of [(Im)Perfect Strangers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26116723/chapters/65726572). All you really need to know is that Ciaran (Iorveth's 2nd in command) discovered that Iorveth and Roche are a thing and decided to leave - and take most of the Scoia'tael with him.

The Scoia’tael were leaving Vergen. Big whoop.

Except Ves almost wished she could go with them. Not because she wanted to be around filthy elven bandits, but because at least they seemed like they _understood!_ Humans and elves and dwarves were never meant to play get along the way Roche seemed so damned insistent on.

But more than that, Ves didn’t _want_ to get along with them! She wanted to fight them, she wanted to kill them, she wanted the mountain to run red with their blood.

Which was why she was currently walking around the gulleys outside of Vergen. Because dammit, her Commander had ordered her to get along with these fucking nonhumans, and Ves always endeavored to do what Roche needed her to. 

It was the least she could do for the man that had rescued her from the Scoia’tael. The same Scoia’tael that had split into two factions – the “let’s all get along” party that fawned over Saskia as much as Iorveth did and the “fuck humans” party that Iorveth’s second in command was leading.

Why couldn’t her mission be to go take care of those fuckers? She was _good_ at that.

Getting along with people? That had never been in Ves’s skill set. She’d never particularly _wanted_ it to be. Getting along with people meant making nice with her captors lest they punish her again. Getting along meant bolstering her smile with dreams of swimming through Scoia’tael blood.

That had changed after Roche had rescued her. Not a lot – she still spent a _lot_ of time dreaming of blood and carnage, honestly, especially as she’d gone through basic training as the only woman – and everyone made sure she knew it, knew that she was only there because Roche had called in favors for her, only there because she was _pretty,_ not because women had any skill as soldiers.

She’d shown them. Each and every one of them. Ves was the best damn fighter in her entire training class, and she made sure they _knew it._

That was a lesson she’d learned long ago. No one else will protect you. If you can’t protect yourself, then you will be made to do whatever other people wanted – and Ves was not someone who cared about what _other_ people wanted.

Roche was different. Roche had taken one look at her – chained to the wall in shredded clothing, stained bedding the only other thing in the room – and he’d held his hands up, edged around her to break the chain, then offered her a knife and told her where the Scoia’tael commander was.

Ves had gotten vengeance. For her village, for the people she’d grown up with, but most of all, for _her._

Roche had understood that she’d needed that. Then he had the fucking audacity to correct her grip on the knife – and dodge it when she sent it flying at his head.

_“See, if your grip was better, you would’ve made contact,”_ he’d teased, and Ves had waited, prepared for the crude remarks she knew always followed such things. But instead, without ever touching her, he’d demonstrated the correct grip with his own knife.

And he was right – when one of the captives Roche’s men had taken tried to escape, Ves’s knife nailed him right between the eyes. Roche had laughed and complimented her, and the approving look in his eye had made Ves feel safe for the first time in – her thoughts shied away from reviewing her past. In too long, at any rate.

_That_ was why Ves had chosen to follow Roche. He’d never even asked her to, had never needed to. He’d known from the moment he looked at her that she was a fighter, a warrior, a soldier. 

And he made it happen. Even though “women didn’t belong in combat” and “she’ll distract the men!”, Roche made it happen. To this day, she didn’t know how many strings he must have pulled to make it so, but she was determined not to let it go to waste. She was a soldier and she would show them all, with knife in hand and blood spattering the ground.

Only right now, Roche didn’t need her knives. He needed her to _get along._

Her teeth gnashed against each other as she stomped across the gullies and continued south, _away_ from Vergen, away from all the damned nonhumans that she _wasn’t allowed to kill._

Ves snarled, fingers flexing around the knife in her hand. There was nothing to throw it at, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be ready. Preparedness always paid off.

The stone gullies slowly morphed into grassy woodlands and Ves must have traveled quite a distance from Vergen by now, but she did not at all feel prepared to go back. 

She respected Roche. She even respected Saskia. She respected what they were trying to do, creating a land of equality and blah blah blah, good for the kids and therefore good for Temeria. She didn’t love it, but she could respect it.

But gods, wasn’t anyone else struggling with not punching the fucking elves!?

Even Finch and Fenn seemed more subdued since they’d made a mess of the library, and Thirteen was – well, Thirteen had always been a little different. But they all hated elves just as much as she did. Why weren’t their hands itching to slit some throats and cut off some ears and just _take control!?_

The sound of stones overturning alerted her to someone’s presence moments before a fucking Scoia’tael arrow was flying through the air towards her. She dodged, following the trajectory and throwing her knife.

There was a pained grunt and Ves grinned ferally. _Finally,_ here was an elf she could hurt, and no one could blame her for not getting along, not when they attacked first.

Ves stalked in the direction of the sound, another knife at the ready. She saw the blood first, little droplets beaded on the forest floor. Following them up, she found none other than Iorveth’s second in command – or should that be _former_ second in command – sitting on a tree branch with her knife in his shoulder.

He scowled at her, holding a sword at the ready, but it was clear the wound pained him greatly.

_Good._

“An elf I can finally kill,” Ves said, drawing her own sword, knife still gripped in her left hand, “today must be my lucky day.”

“Typical bloodthirsty dh’oine,” Ciaran scoffed. 

“Come find out,” she challenged.

Though both of them were second in command of opposing units, they had never actually fought each other before, not directly. Most Scoia’tael who came into contact with the Blue Stripes ceased to live rather quickly – and Flotsam was the first time they had faced each other directly.

They being the Scoia’tael and the Blue Stripes. Iorveth and Roche.

_Ves,_ on the other hand, had been stuck with her pathetic opposite in the hands of Flotsam’s corrupt and disgusting commander. Pitiful.

“Iorveth’s second in command,” she taunted, “so bad at his job, he got caught by Loredo. So bad at being a soldier that he betrayed his commander. What _are_ you any good at?”

“Killing filth,” Ciaran snarled, lunging at her from above.

Ves caught his blade with hers, pivoting to use his momentum against him and throw him to the ground. The light footed bastard rolled, landing on his feet and coming right back at her immediately.

He was better than she’d expected, keeping both her knife and her sword fully occupied, giving her no openings to really draw some blood. Fine, she would have to make her _own_ opening then.

Roche hated the way that Ves wore her armor, half her front exposed, but there was a purpose to it. Namely that ever so effective purpose of using men’s misogyny against them. 

Men always thought they were ready to stab a woman – right up until they were presented with the reminder that this was a _woman,_ a hole with tits, and suddenly they lost their nerve. Ves enjoyed castrating those men.

For now, she shifted her shoulder and let her armor slip open just that little bit more – and waited for the moment she saw Ciaran notice, saw him blink in surprise, a pink blush rising on sharp cheekbones, and she smirked, pushing her advantage and getting in close until she could connect an elbow with the underside of his jaw.

Ciaran grunted loudly, turning to spit blood onto the ground. She charged him, leading with her knife and managed to get two good hits in before he stabbed her in the thigh.

Snarling, Ves leapt back, faltering as she put weight on her injured leg. She glanced down at it – nothing too bad – hadn’t nicked any arteries, which meant it could be dealt with later. For now, she had an elf to skin.

Their fight continued for far longer than she ever would’ve expected, and by the time that her movements were lagging with exhaustion, she could see Ciaran slowing too. Dammit, no fucking elf was going to outlast her!

Ves shoved herself up, attacking him again. And again. And again.

Why wouldn’t the elf fucking submit!?

Finally, when her arm was starting to shake from holding a sword aloft for so long, she threw it aside and tackled Ciaran, driving him down onto the forest floor, kicking, stabbing and punching at everything she could reach.

Ciaran did the same and Ves was aching and tired and still so fucking _angry._ Ciaran stared up at her, that same helpless fury reflected in his eyes and Ves did the only thing she _could_ do.

She punched him in the face. He caught her fist and twisted them until he had her in a headlock, her face pressed against the surprisingly soft fabric of his armor. Right next to her nose, the neckline of his armor left his his chest exposed, only a thin tunic protecting it.

Ves grinned and bit down _hard,_ tasting iron that could have been from his blood or hers.

Ciaran made an odd high-pitched scandalized noise and let go of her instantly, jerking his skin out of her mouth and rolling away. Finally, he rose with an arm draped protectively over his chest, looking at her with wide eyes.

Ves showed her teeth, undoubtedly bloodstained, and pulled out her knife, ignoring the way her legs trembled with fatigue. 

“You _bit_ me!?” Ciaran gaped, voice shrill.

“You’ve got delicate skin, pretty boy,” Ves laughed. Her laugh usually made anyone in the vicinity shudder in fear, and sure enough, Ciaran’s shoulders shivered just slightly.

“You fucking _bit me,”_ he repeated like an idiot.

“What, do you store your brain in your tits?” she taunted. “It’s called a fight, pretty boy, now _bring it!”_

Ciaran’s eyes narrowed and his hands curled into fists. He took a step towards her – and then shaky legs collapsed, leaving him to fall face first into the ground.

Ves pointed and laughed and did not at all acknowledge the way her own legs gave out, crumpling to her knees just a handful of paces from her enemy. Too far.

Ciaran rolled over onto his back with a groan. “This is _not_ how I expected my day to go.”

Ves grunted in reluctant agreement, letting herself drop into a lazy sprawl. The elf was no longer a threat, not in this state. Just as she could not kill him, he could not kill her.

Now it was simply a race to see who recovered faster.

“What did you expect?” she asked, more out of something to do to pass the time rather than any actually curiosity.

Ciaran shot her a disbelieving look. “You might have noticed,” he said slowly, as if she were particularly stupid. She growled at him, wishing she could lift her arms enough to throw a dagger. “But I’ve literally just established a settlement for over three hundred people.”

Ves rolled her eyes. “Oh, right, I forgot. You led a coup in the Scoia’tael, betrayed your commander – after he rescued your ass from Loredo, too.”

Ciaran grit his teeth, “what do you care, dh’oine?”

“I would _never_ turn on _my_ commander,” she declared proudly. 

Ciaran just laughed, a harsh sound tinged with _pity_ of all things and Ves curled her fingers around her knife. It wouldn’t be long now before the elf’s blood would spill over her hands.

“If only you knew,” Ciaran said bitterly and she glared at him.

“Knew _what!?”_

Ciaran just shook his head. “Some people are not worthy of being followed. You should take a closer look at your _own_ commander, dh’oine. You’ll see that he’s not worth your loyalty.”

She snarled, “how _dare_ you!?”

He laughed hollowly. “You’ll see. I would never have believed it of Iorveth if I hadn’t seen.” Ciaran shook his head, a look of pure disgust on his face.

Ves frowned. Were they talking about Iorveth or about Roche? Either way, she should just kill the elf and be done with it.

Only something stopped her. In her head, Roche’s voice echoed, _“we’re the outsiders here. Killing someone – even if they deserve it – could be more trouble than its worth. Think about it carefully – and if you_ do _kill someone, be prepared with an explanation the Blue Stripes can defend itself with.”_

Because the Blue Stripes would stand behind it, even if Roche privately reamed any of them out if the explanation didn’t stand up to his scrutiny. That was the promise Roche had made to each of them – whatever power his word or his name had, he would always use it to protect them. That’s what it _meant_ to be a leader.

Could she defend killing Ciaran right now?

Even if they were on the outs, he was still Iorveth’s right hand man, an elf with an _extremely_ high bounty on his head and all kinds of potential intel inside of it.

Except the Blue Stripes were no longer fighting the Scoia’tael. If anything, they were _working together._

Ves made a face in disgust. She much preferred when they had been enemies.

But regardless, orders were orders. And Roche’s order was that the truce with the Scoia’tael was indefinite. If she killed him, she would break the truce that Roche had put his name to.

On the other hand, Ciaran was clearly a pain in Vergen’s side. Wouldn’t getting rid of him be for the best?

Ciaran led over three hundred people. If he died at her hands, who would those people blame? Who would they decide to direct their fury at?

Ves sighed heavily, “gods fucking dammit.” 

She had to let him live. She couldn’t justify his death, not when the repercussions would put everything Roche was working for in danger. Not when she knew that she _couldn’t_ truly defend killing him, because _I really wanted to make an elf bleed_ would not be a good enough reason, not in Vergen.

Ciaran still lay on his back, his neck exposed. It would be _so easy_ to let her blade slip _just_ enough for him to bleed out. 

But she couldn’t disappoint Roche that way, couldn’t force him to deal with the consequences of her bloodlust.

“Well?” Ciaran asked, challenge in his eye. He tilted his head back, exposing it further and gods, that pale skin was just _begging_ to be stained red. 

She growled in frustration, forcing her body to roll over, and came up onto her elbows just above Ciaran’s head, resting her knife against his neck. The position left their faces close, her forehead near his chin, and she could see the surprise writ large across Ciaran’s face, making her smirk.

Noticing, he quickly tried to control his expression again, and Ves decided she liked him off guard more, so she dug the tip of her knife just barely into his skin. A warning. A threat. A mark that she _could_ have killed him, if she’d wanted to.

Fuck, she really, really wanted to.

But dammit, she was a soldier first, and her commander’s orders had been clear.

“I won’t kill you,” she said slowly, “but _only_ because my commander forbids it.” Ves scanned the elf’s face, made note of the drop of blood rolling down the side of Ciaran’s neck. Without thinking too hard about what she was doing, Ves leaned forward, incidentally shoving her cleavage in Ciaran’s face, and bit his neck, exactly opposite of that small puncture where her knife had broken skin. She dug her teeth in deep, ensuring that a mark would last.

Ciaran made a strangled sound, muffled against her chest and it would be _so easy_ to just smother him.

But no. She released his neck, drawing back again. “Remember who defeated you,” she threatened, his blood staining her lips.

Then, as he stared at her stupidly with wide eyes, she pulled herself to her feet and headed back towards Vergen.


End file.
